FLAME OF DESIRE (3 page)

I must! He thought, before this spark between us flames too high. Reluctantly he pulled away from her, longing for the touch of her as soon as she had left his arms.

His sudden withdrawal startled Heather. Coming back to her senses, she stiffened, regretting having let this bold man be so familiar. What was wrong with her? She had always managed to keep the local swains at arm’s length. That she wanted him to kiss her again, hold her again, mortified her and so she hid behind a veil of false anger.

“You are overbold, sir!” She backed away from him but he caught up with her in three swift strides.

“Nay, do not flee from me, Heather. I apologize for my actions, but truly you have touched my heart.”

She did not answer him but he could see by the look in her eyes that she was not really angry. Lord, she was beautiful. He ached to hold her, make love to her, but she deserved much more than one night of passion. This was no tavern trollop, but a woman of breeding.

I would give all my worldly possessions to stay
, he thought. But he knew that he could not. There was danger if he did not warn Mary in time. Temped by her full pouting mouth, her tender curves, he quickly walked to the door before he succumbed to his desire. He had not the
right
to claim her.

Looking out into the night, he could see no sign of those who stalked him. His pursuers had quickly vanished into the night. It appeared to be safe out on the cobbled streets of the city. Seeing that it was still stormy, he sought his cloak.

Turning to look at Heather one more time, he whispered, “Good-bye. Such a lonely word.”

“Goodbye?” she repeated, raising a trembling hand to her mouth. She wanted to take back her harsh words, to ask him to stay, if only for a moment longer, but instead she remained silent, watching as he stepped out into the dark and rain as suddenly as he had come into her life. Would she ever forget him? She knew that she would not. Closing the door, she knew that somehow she would never quite be the same again.

Running to the courtyard, Richard Morgan quickly untethered a stallion, not knowing or caring to whom the animal belonged. Mounting the horse, he spurred the beast onward, away from the dangers of London.

Chapter Three

Sitting before the fire, clad in her chemise, a blanket pulled close around her to ward off the chill, Heather stared out the window watching as the rain splattered against the sill. She shivered, but not from the cold, nor from fear; instead another emotion rocked her body as she remembered what had taken place between the stranger and herself. Touching her fingers to her lips, she remembered the kiss and gently licked her lips as if to experience it again.

“I don’t even know his name,” she murmured, hungry for knowledge of him. Meeting him had made her clearly realize just how monotonous her life was. She had known before that there must be more to life than ledgers, cooking pots, and stitchery, but his entrance into her life had emphasized how dreary her existence was. He was handsome, so handsome.

“Listen to me. I sound like some infatuated fledgling schoolgirl,” she chided, straightening upright in her chair. She was hardly that at nineteen. Since girlhood she had been older than her years, thrust early into the world of finance and markets; but in matters of the heart, perhaps she was untried. Her father seemed loath to part with her, no doubt fearing that he would have to hire someone else to do the bookkeeping and chores. Many local merchants had asked for her hand but he would not consider them rich enough to suit him and sent them on their way. Thus it was that heather was considered a “spinster,” albeit a comely one.

Leaning back in the chair again, wrapping her arms around her knees, Heather curled up in a ball and closed her eyes as if to envision again the face of the man she had met tonight. Lost in a haze of her dreams, she was lulled to sleep by the beat of the rain on the roof.

A loud pounding woke her with a start. It was her father’s voice that she heard yelling in anger at the top of his lungs. Casting the blanket aside, she ran down the stairs to open the thick wooden door. The force of the wind slammed the door against the wall and Heather stared into the frowning face of her portly father.

“God’s blood, girl, what took you so long?”

“I’m sorry, Father.” The mist of the rain caressed her face, cooling her flaming cheeks.

“Now, Thomas, Heather was probably asleep. Don’t be so harsh with her.” The voice was that of Heather’s mother, a woman with gray hair and a figure now plump in her fortieth year.

Husband and wife stepped into the large hall, soaking the floor as the rain dripped from their sodden garments. Still in her fog of dreams, Heather stood watching as the drops mingled to form a large puddle.

“What addles your brain, daughter? Get something to clean this mess up.” Stamping his feet, her father sought to wipe the mud from his shoes. “Soaked to the skin, I am, and this my finest gown.” His hands brushed at the velvet and fur as if to undo what had been done.

Heather sought several large towels from the kitchen and bent down to mop up the mess on the floor, knowing well how quickly her father’s anger could be fanned. When that was done she stood up and reached to take her father’s fur-trimmed outer gown and soft-crowned black velvet cap with its upturned brim. Being a merchant eager to display his wealth, he wore a floor-length gown that was quite bulky to manage.

“Don’t drag it on the floor, girl.”

Finding the nearest peg, Heather sought to hang the garment carefully, but she had no doubt that it was damaged beyond repair. Velvet could be ruined and matted by moisture. Her mother stepped up beside her, hanging her hooded cloak next to the gown. Her eyes were soft and gentle, blue eyes which seemed to hold a sadness that Heather had never been able to understand.

“Your father nearly got trampled by some horsemen chasing a fugitive. That is why he is so out of sorts, dear. Don’t let his gruff manner upset you.” Blythe Bowen smiled her sad smile.

Heather’s heart lurched in her breast. “They didn’t catch him did they?” she asked all too quickly before measuring her words. The thought of the rebel being killed was disturbing.

Her father grunted in anger. “I daresay not. At least not then. Bumbling fools, I say. Northumberland should have their heads.” He headed up the stairs and for the solar, that living and dining room combined, where the family spent many hours. Heather and Blythe Bowen followed close behind.

“Ah…warmth at last.” Rubbing his hands before the fire, Thomas Bowen at last smiled.

This time Heather weighed her words. “Have you heard any news about the king?”

He looked at her with surprise, rubbing his rather large nose. “No. Should I have?”

Heather averted her eyes. “I heard that he…that he was very ill.” Again the fear nagged at her brain that perhaps the dark-haired rebel had lied to her. “Perhaps even dead.”

“Dead!” her father thundered. “Where would you hear such a churlish lie as that?” His ruddy complexion took on an even redder glow.

Heather did not answer. What could she say? Could she tell her parents that she had heard the words from a man who held her captive, a man in danger of losing his life, a man she had helped escape?

Why has the word of the king’s death not been heard by now
? she wondered. Surely it should have been shouted from the rooftops. Had the dark-haired man tricked her so that she would not denounce him, playing on her sympathy with his charms? Was he even now laughing at the ploy, at the simple merchant’s daughter who had fallen so easily for his words?

Thomas Bowen answered his own question for her. “Jabbering servants. Always letting their tongues rattle in their heads.” He raised one eyebrow and grimaced. “God help us if Edward were to die. Mary Tudor, indeed. A Catholic upon the throne again would put this land to ruin.”

Seeking to soothe her husband’s ill temper, Blythe Bowen stepped forward with her cool and gentle hands to stroke his graying hair, what there was left of it. Thomas Bowen was bald on top, though hardly anyone but the family servants were aware of that fact as he usually covered his shiny dome with a hat.

“Don’t fret so, Thomas, everything will be all right,” Blythe Bowen crooned.

Heather thought that they made an odd pair, her mother taller than her father and slimmer by comparison to his considerable bulk. She looked at her mother and could nearly imagine what a beauty she must have been once. Now her face seemed to be lined with sadness, a touch of melancholy. Why? She seemed to be devoted to Thomas Bowen, but Heather could not help wondering if she loved him. Thomas Bowen could often be a difficult man, as Heather well knew.

As a child Heather had tried hard to please him, only to fall victim to his seeming resentment of her. Were she to speak her mind he would call her defiant and disrespectful. Chiding her for her temper, her only fault, he more often than not sought to break her spirit. Now as a woman she fought against her bitterness toward him, being always the dutiful daughter despite his constant demands and miserly ways. He was her father and she longed to be able to love him. If only he showed her more affection. She bowed her head meekly to him as a good obedient daughter was expected to do even when he treated her harshly, but all the while her eyes blazed in secret anger.

People made the comment that they did not know where Heather came by her good looks, certainly not from Thomas, and more than one guest in the house had laughingly quipped that Heather’s gentle manner was obviously not patterned after Thomas’ temperament. Was it that she was so unlike him that he begrudged her?

“Are you hungry, Thomas?” It was Heather’s mother who spoke. It was quiet in the household, the two servants already abed.

“Famished. My sister is such a stingy hostess. One helping is not enough for me.”

Heather helped her mother assemble some of the leftovers from the noon meal—cheese, bread, meat—then watched as Thomas Bowen ate the food greedily, licking his fingers when he was through. Leaning back in his chair, he smiled in contentment. Gone now was the lion and in its place was the lamb. His thoughts seemed far away as he gazed into space, finally saying, “All in all it has been a good year. Northumberland is an able protector, not like that fool Somerset. We are well rid of him, king’s uncle or not. Too soft on the poor he was, and look what it brought us. Ket’s rebellion. No, we are better off with Northumberland. Henry himself would be pleased by the strength of his administration.”

Heather remembered the words the rebel had spoken, that the Duke of Northumberland was ambitious, that he planned to place his daughter-in-law, Lady Jane Grey, on the throne, and wondered at the truth of those words. She knew nothing about politics but sensed something sinister about the duke despite the fact that he had frequent business dealings with her father.

Could the Duke of Northumberland actually think to usurp the throne? Nearly all England took Mary’s accession as inevitable and just. Would he dare to be so bold? Yes. Had he not seen to the execution of the king’s own uncle, Edward Seymour, the Duke of Somerset, grabbing more and more power until he was virtually all but the king now? From the talk that Heather had heard on the streets of London, the people hated Northumberland. No administration had ever been so loathed. Was it possible that he would seek to hide the news of the king’s death?

Hoping to hear at least some of what was happening at the palace; she listened intently to her parents’ conversation as she cleared the table, only to be disappointed as the tide of the talking turned to domestic matters.

“Thomas, a new carpet would make the house so much warmer,” Blythe Bowen was saying, as if his better mood would loosen his purse. “Would you ask Jonathan if we could make arrangements with him to purchase one for us on his next trip?”

With his elbows firmly planted on the table, Thomas Bowen curled his lips up in a sneer as he looked daggers at his wife. “Good heavens, woman, I have just purchased three hundred acres of land and now must have it fenced to keep the sheep from wandering. That is an investment to put shillings in my pocket, not take them out. First things first, I always say.”

Heather saw the look of disappointment in her mother’s eyes but was not surprised by the old miser’s answer. It was not that they did not have luxuries in their home, but that most of them were to make her father’s life more comfortable or to impress his associates with his wealth. Sooner or later her mother would get her carpet, for Thomas Bowen was not one to be outdone and rugs were beginning to be seen in a few homes throughout the city.

“As you say, Thomas.” As always, Blythe Bowen gave in to her husband without an argument.

Why does she not speak up to him? Heather wondered in frustration. Just once she would have liked to see her mother show more spirit. Wanting to be alone with her thoughts, Heather took her leave of her parents and climbed the stairs to her bedroom. She would never be so docile with a man; this she vowed.

Padding on bare feet to the window to look out upon the night, to that cobbled street the dark-haired man had ridden down, she seemed to see his face before her. Closing the shutters tightly for the night, she walked to the fire and leaned her head back, trying to quench the flame in her blood that the memory of him sparked tonight. His hot, soft, exploring mouth and husky voice now tormented her with a yearning she could not quite understand. She imagined strong arms holding her, caressing her. She had never thought much about lovemaking before, but her curiosity was piqued by the encounter with the stranger.

Snuffing the candles, she slowly removed her chemise and undergarments, hanging up the clothes on the horizontal pole above the head of her bed. Standing beside the bed with her hair swirling about her shoulders, she ignored the chill of the night and let her long tresses tickle her back as she swayed from side to side.

The tolling of a bell startled her out of her reverie, the midnight bell. The spell was broken and for a moment Heather felt wicked to have been thinking in such a way about a man she scarcely knew. Getting under the covers, she pulled them up to her chin to bring warmth to her chilled body. She tried hard to push all thoughts of the man from her mind but could not, no matter how hard she tried. Tossing and turning on the straw-filled mattress, she had only her memories to comfort her, her memories and Saffron, who curled up at the foot of the bed.